I've been crying for 27 years. I'm not sure when it switched from crying because I was hungry to crying because I hated myself. I wonder how soon self-hatred can begin, because I feel like it's always been there, like it's a part of me. I hated that I was shy. I hated that I was naughty. I hated my clothes. I hated that I didn't know what to do to fit in. I hated that I was smart, but I felt dumb. I hated my voice, my teeth, my bones, the bags under my eyes, the breasts that didn't grow. The things I created, the love that I gave that was never enough--if my awkward hands touched it, my small mouth spoke it, or my simple mind thought it, then it must be terrible just like me. I cried over all these things. But that wasn't enough so I cried longer and harder. I cried the air out of my lungs in the shower till all the hot water was gone. And when I looked in the mirror at my pink, puffy face, I cried at how ugly my crying made me. Eventually the words weren't giving me what I deserved. So the razor did. The first time I cut myself was on my hip bones. Those horrible, jutting, bony, ugly hip bones. I felt bad for people who had to look at me, and every time my pants rubbed against my wounds, justice was being served. But then the guilt would set in for doing something so disgusting. Eventually this was all too much and I decided it was time to go. Vodka, pills, and a long vertical incision in a hot bath was the plan. I traced the veins in my arms, imagining what it would be like to actually go through with it. My self-hatred might be the thing that saved me--I told myself I was too stupid to actually make it work. I don't know what my mom said to me, but I'll never forget the moment I blurted out, "Do you know I know the exact way I want to die?" My parents sat me down and talked to me, and all I can remember was my dad telling me he'd do anything for me.
I am the most precious, invaluable thing on this earth. Simply being born made me that way. I am someone's child, and to take that away would cause the most unimaginable pain. So for now, that keeps me here. I deal with the pain and loneliness and sadness because ending it for me wouldn't really be ending it; it would just be giving it to them. So here I am at 27, still crying. I don't remember what I did on my 27th birthday. I didn't tell people it was my birthday, and for a few months I thought I was 28. Still, when people ask me, I start to say 28. Although I've thought about it a lot I can't figure out why this little nuance happened. But in thinking about it I realized I can't imagine being 29. Sure, 28. But when imagining the future, it doesn't go past there. The feeling runs so deep that if I hit 29 I will be genuinely confused. It's so strong that I couldn't write that sentence with "when" instead of "if." Maybe next year I'll start going backwards like Benjamin Button. I'll go all the way back to the moment that little seed of hate started growing, say, "You're beautiful," and maybe even feel happy.
